In an Instant
by Lemon Row
Summary: John and Sherlock are brawling with some criminals in the middle of an alleyway. In the middle of it, things go horribly wrong. A prequel that explains the circumstances in 'Stasis', but it can stand alone.


**Warning**: Major character death, non-gratuitious descriptions of mortal injuries

* * *

_And time is slowing down / And if we only had a little more time /_  
_And this time / Is all there is_

_-Zero Sum, Nine Inch Nails_

* * *

_It was all over in an instant._

A phrase that, every time he heard it, caused Sherlock to respond with a curled lip, a roll of his eyes, and a derisive laugh.

What a _useless_ thing to say, really. Of _course_ '_it_' was over in an instant.

_Everything_ occurred in an instant.

Even a process that took eons from a macroscopic perspective consisted of billions upon trillions upon quadrillions of '_instants' _heaping upon each other at the microscopic or atomic level. Accumulating until, for example, a mountain was formed.

Sherlock didn't expect exact timestamps from the witnesses and victims he spoke to. He knew that adrenaline had a ghastly effect on the brain's ability to process information. That it could impair one's ability to properly analyze an abstract factor such as the passage of time.

But really, would it induce an aneurysm, or cause some form of asthmatic attack, for them to at least _attempt_ to give a more specific estimate than '_an instant_'? Did they not realize that an accurate timeline was often crucial to solving a case? Or at least to taking the proper steps forward…

He abhorred the use of such hyperbole. Or at least he _had_. Until the day he came to realize _precisely_ what people meant when they used that hated string of words.

(Time Passage)

_Block, redirect, grab- block- __**strike**_.

Fingers curled into a rough imitation of a leopard's paw, Sherlock sunk his knuckles into one of his attacker's throats. Caught the swing coming from the second man in his peripheral vision early enough to duck before it landed.

A crack of thunder ricocheted against the brick walls of the alleyway.

Somehow, a separate corner of his mind managed to take the time to wonder about this anomaly. Weather reports for the day hadn't made any mention of a storm.

Clutching his second assailant's forearm, he lifted his foot and jammed it down into the knee of the first man, who was already halfway to the ground in an attempt to draw some air in through his imploded trachea. A garbled howl of pain clamoured out of him, and Sherlock chuckled with glee.

He wondered how John was making out.

"Oh Christ," said a voice from John's direction. Must be doing well then; the man sounded panicked.

"_Christ_, Robert. _Robert!_" the voice rang out again, getting closer now. It sounded rather shrill.

As Sherlock continued battling the opponent of his that was still on his feet, the man he'd incapacitated coughed. "Bleeding _Hell_, Derek. What did you _do_?" he croaked out.

"I… I don't…"

"_Fuck_!"

"Robert, mate, we've got to get out of here!"

…And then, the fight was over. Something made Sherlock's attacker panic. Made him drop his swinging fists and take several quick steps backwards. Two bodies whirled past Sherlock- the men who'd been occupying John. They met their comrades, and together the four of them sprinted deeper into the alley.

Sherlock peeled after them. Only made it a few meters though before he realized that he couldn't hear his husband's footsteps behind him.

Strange.

Pivoting on one heel, he looked to see what might be holding John back. At first though, he didn't see him.

Not until he looked down.

John was lying on the pavement. Looking like a puppet whose master had just abandoned his strings. Legs straight but halfway crossing each other, torso turned at a ninety-degree angle to the ground. Right arm lying out to his side, his left thrown over his body.

"John?" Sherlock called, a frown creasing his brow.

No answer.

He took a step toward him, head tilting to the side.

"John!" he tried again, jogging through the last few meters that separated them.

When he reached his target, for perhaps the first time in his life, everything in Sherlock's mind screeched to a halt. Brakes applied on all thought processes; even the emergency brake had been engaged.

For a few agonizing yet blissful seconds, everything was silent within his cranium. Calm. There were no inputs and no outputs. His breathing had seized. All of the sounds echoing against the brick walls surrounding him were muted. The damp scent of decomposing garbage was blocked out of his nasal passages.

There was just… nothing.

Nothing but the information being collected on the photoreceptors of his retina. Splotches of colour and roughly drawn shapes.

_Perhaps the image was falling just outside of the fovea then_.

The silence couldn't last forever though. As always, once his mind was given data to chew on, digestion commenced almost immediately.

John.

Collapsed.

Broken.

Blown apart.

_Upward trajectory of bullet looks to be approximately negative fifty degrees from zero, if zero is the plane parallel to the ground. Piercing the temporomandibular joint, coursing through the left temporal and right parietal lobes. Obliteration of the lateral and third ventricles. Likely damage to the dorsal aspect of the corpus callosum._

A bullet through his head.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

Spilling out across the black tarmac at his feet. Sticky and wet. Messy.

John didn't mind when the flat was messy. Not since he'd come to understand that it was a requisite feature of Sherlock's existence.

_Where had all of that blood come from_?

Sherlock blinked. Looked up. Saw a taxi roll by on the street at the end of the alley.

_All of that blood._

_Pulmonary capillaries and venules and veins to left atrium. Bicuspid valve. Left ventricle. Aortic semilunar valve. Ascending aorta, arch of aorta. On the right, brachiocephalic trunk branching to right common carotid and subclavian arteries. On the left, left common carotid and subclavian arteries. Vertebral arteries branching from the subclavian arteries. Internal carotid arteries branching from the common carotids. Basilar artery, anterior and middle cerebral arteries. Circle of Willis._

_All of that blood._

"John?" he asked again. "John, get up, we've got to chase them."

Sherlock knelt down beside his husband. Ran his hand across the side of his head and cradled it at the back. Leaned in so he could hoist John up by his shoulders and pull him into his lap.

"John." Sherlock continued speaking to him. Continued speaking even though…

Continued speaking as if the heart in his chest, whose existence he had denied for so long before meeting the man in his arms, had hijacked his tongue and vocal cords. Refused to acknowledge what his mind was seeing. What his mind knew to be true.

"John, _please_," he said, the second word almost a whisper. "John, please get up. Get up, get up, _get_ _up_, _get_…" the last word was coughed out as a gasp.

Hands moving of their own volition, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Rang for an ambulance. Texted his location to Lestrade. Pulled off his coat, and then his suit jacket.

Folding his jacket up, he pressed it against both the entry and exit wounds on John's head.

_Keep pressure on the area. Slows the blood loss. _

Draped his coat over John's body.

_He'll be going into shock. Have to keep him warm. _

…_Why have I got this blanket? Th-they keep putting this blanket on me. _

_Yeah, it's for shock. _

_I'm not _in _shock._

"Sir. _Sir_?"

Sherlock blinked up at the woman standing over him. Uniform. Stethoscope.

How had the ambulance arrived so quickly?

"Sir, you'll have to let go of him."

Sherlock looked down to where a pair of hands was attempting to ease John out of his hold. He glanced up at the woman again. "Right. Yes. I applied pressure to the wound."

There was hesitation. A flicker of sorrow across the woman's face before she gave him an approving smile. "That's a good job, sir. What's his name?"

"Husband."

"…Sir?"

"John. Doctor John Watson. He's my husband."

She nodded. Glanced across to her partner, to the stretcher waiting behind them, back to Sherlock for a brief moment, before settling again on her partner. Her eyebrows twitched. Her partner nodded. "All right. Well, we're going to get John onto the stretcher now and take him to the hospital. Will you be riding with-"

"Sherlock?" a voice- Lestrade –clattered down the alleyway and struck him between the eyes. "Sherlock!"

"Here!" he called out.

There was a blur of movement as Lestrade deployed himself on the scene. Eyes scanning each of them. Sherlock, and then John and the paramedics.

Shock. Terror. Rage. Shock again.

A deep breath.

And then action. Bending down to place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Giving his deltoid a firm squeeze. Standing up again and spinning around. Speaking with the paramedics as they hauled John onto the stretcher and towards the ambulance.

As if there were an invisible cord attaching him to his husband's body, as John's proximity to him decreased, Sherlock couldn't help but follow. Long limbs unfolding with none of his usual grace, he stood up and stumbled towards the stretcher.

Lestrade intercepted him. "Sherlock," he rumbled, placing a warm hand on his chest.

Too warm. It scalded him. Sherlock pushed the offending appendage away. "I'm his husband. I've got to ride with him."

"Sherlock-"

"If there's been some adjustment to standard protocol then I should have been informed immediately." He pointed an accusatory finger. "They said nothing about-"

"_Sherlock_!" Lestrade shouted, but was trying to be gentle about it. Only raising his voice to be heard above the clatter of panic in the detective's mind.

Sherlock's gaze, scurrying around like an animal caught in a cage, finally stopped its crazed motions and fixed on him. He became aware of the hand cupping the back of his head. Fingers clasping thick bunches of curls.

Lestrade didn't say anything else. He didn't have to. Those cruel walnut eyes embedded in his orbital sockets, the devastation in his face… they were speaking the words that Sherlock wouldn't believe if someone dared tell them to him aloud.

_John is dead_.

They were loading him into the ambulance anyway. Performing whatever life-saving measures could be taken for a man with a quarter of his skull missing…

But he'd lost too much blood already.

…Even if he did somehow manage to live with the extensive brain damage, he'd never really be _alive_ again.

_John is dead. _

_John is dead. _

_John is dead John is dead John is dead. Dead is John. Dead John John dead. _

Something lurched in his chest. Rolled over and stopped functioning. Like a turtle stuck on its back. He couldn't breathe. His lungs had been replaced by handfuls of cotton batting.

Survival mechanisms finally kicking in, he gasped. One. Two. Three. Four_fivesix_ times before his arterial chemoreceptors agreed that he'd inspired enough oxygen for him to remain conscious.

Sherlock felt his face crumple into some ugly, horrified mask of anguish. Hot tears singed the edges of his eyelids, but he breathed deep in hopes that some anatomical connection- _nasal cavity to nasolacrimal duct to eye _–might allow for the rush of air to dry out the salty droplets.

He managed to stay calm and collected. His lip very stiff and upper. His features returning to a neutral posture.

It lasted five gargantuan seconds before he dissolved again. A clipped moan escaped out of him.

He was grabbing for Lestrade's arm. Stumbling backwards at the same time. Feet scraping against the pavement that was covered in his husband's blood. Knees flexing, quadriceps and hamstrings and gluteal muscles failing until he found himself on his backside. Bundled up against the brick wall, Lestrade kneeling in front of him.

"John…" he choked out.

They were gone though. John and the ambulance. Disappearing around the corner and out onto the street. Off to a hospital where a swathe of doctors and nurses would check his pulse and gawk at his wounds and sigh with sorrow on behalf of his loved ones and use wretched phrases such as '_time of death_' and '_poor sod_' and '_well let's get him cleaned up at least_'.

Shot through the head.

Would they think he was a criminal? A drug dealer, perhaps? An alduterer who'd been found out?

Would they know that they in fact had _Doctor John Watson _on their table?

The first true friend Sherlock had ever had in his life. A man with good principles and a sound mind and a superior heart. The only person who'd ever been worth his time and affection and patience and devotion and loyalty and _love_.

Would they know that a crime had been committed? One even worse than a man being shot…? The simple yet awful crime of John's life being extinguished when others, people barely worth the mud caked to the soles of a footballer's boot, would carry on?

No. No, this would not do.

They had to know. His doctors and nurses and the people standing in the hallway as John's body wheeled by had to _know_ that the man with the obliterated skull was…

He was _everything_.

"I… have to tell them," he murmured, the words themselves almost swallowed by the gasps used to push each of them out.

"What?" Lestrade frowned at him, ducking his head a little to get a better ear on what he'd just said.

Sherlock didn't answer. Blind hands reached out to grab at the first solid objects they found. Lestrade's shoulder. An old packing crate. He tried to haul himself up, but was pushed back down by a solid pair of arms that were accustomed to manhandling criminals.

Even at his ever-advancing age, there was still a lot of muscle compacted into the DI's limbs.

"Sherlock, give us a second, will you?" Lestrade begged. "I'll take you to him, you've just gotta slow down for a moment. Catch your breath." Even as he spoke the words though, his tone said he knew how impossible this would be for Sherlock. Nevertheless, he held him firm. Forced him to remain glued to the solid ground.

_Slow down._

_Catch your breath. _

_Slow down._

_Give us a second. _

_I'll take you to him. _

_Catch your breath_.

_Give us a second. _

_I'll take you to him_.

Really though, the instructions, the offer… none of it mattered, did it? Didn't matter if he calmed down. Didn't matter if Lestrade took him to see John, because John wasn't there anymore.

The knowledge, the _awareness_ of that fact, slammed into him like a harpoon. Sharp and solid and unforgiving.

It was all over.

John's smile.

John's laugh.

John's voice, and the tone that he used when he was happy, sad, angry, frustrated aroused excited hungry terrified worried sated giddy…

John's skin.

John pressing up against him. Curling his hands around his hips and burying his face into his neck. Giggling and whispering promises in Sherlock's ear. Promises to reward him because he'd decided to _voluntarily_ wash the dishes that evening.

John on a case with him. Encouraging and doing his best to keep up and running from one side of London to the other with him. Always running. Never limping. Not for years.

John hacking out an awful tune on the violin just to irritate Sherlock. To provoke him into trying to wrestle the instrument out of his hands. Wrestling that turned to kissing. Kissing that turned to hours spent on the sofa, on the floor, against the kitchen wall and in the bedroom. Wrapped on and around and inside of each other.

John complaining about having to do the shopping _again_, but being secretly relieved about it because at least that way they'd be sure to have something resembling a vegetable in the refrigerator.

John's eyes. Sleepy and blinking against the morning light. Glowing as they peered over the pillow at Sherlock. Full of love and affection and on the best of mornings, _mischief_.

John sprawled out on the mattress in the middle of the night. Even after all these years, his body appreciating the luxury of not being confined to the width of an army cot. Not even caring that he had to compete with Sherlock for every square centimeter on the bed, since he too was the human embodiment of a pancake during sleep.

John's sometimes awful taste in movies.

John's bloody _fantastic_ taste in sweets.

…John and John and John.

Gone. Finished.

_The squeeze of an index finger against a trigger. A flare of gunpowder. A bullet spiralling out of its barrel and through his skull._

…It was all over in an instant.

[-_End_-]


End file.
